


So That We May Live in Peace

by skyfyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfyre/pseuds/skyfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London is a battlefield. A battlefield with tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So That We May Live in Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Trifles and MP. Because they love me.

John Watson had been told once that London was a battlefield. In his opinion, it was a rather nice battle. He sometimes got to stop for tea. Sometimes he got to run through the streets and shoot villains to save the day.

It was the best of both worlds, really.

Of course, what they don’t tell you about war is that it’s not actually non-stop action. Naturally, the exciting bits are very exciting, but the boring bits get really awfully dull.

The tea helped.

It helped John, anyway. Sherlock, apparently, took no such comfort in the drink. Instead, he curled up on the couch and started to lose his mind in the boredom. John wondered, for all Sherlock’s intelligence, just how much mind Sherlock had to lose. There wasn’t much either of them could do to stop the boredom, so John drank his tea and Sherlock pouted into the furniture, and they both waited for the next battle to start.

Sometimes, John wondered what the larger war was about and what the greater pattern was. He suspected that Sherlock knew, but possibly didn’t care. John was fairly certain that Mycroft knew, but was equally certain that Mycroft would never tell. John usually decided that the big picture didn’t matter, and if it started to, then Sherlock would let him know. This system worked for him.

\---

John sat in his armchair, drank some of his tea, and contemplated the idea of going shopping versus the idea of ordering in Chinese. On the one hand, they were out of milk (again). On the other hand, his chair was comfortable.

Across the room, Sherlock lay on the couch doing his very best impression of a dead body. With the level of experience he had observing corpses, his impersonation was very good. John suspected that if Sherlock were to actually die, he wouldn’t know for a rather unfortunate amount of time. This particular sulk had Sherlock’s feet propped up on the arm of the couch, with one of his hands trailing on the floor and his other forearm covering his face. It was all very dramatic. Or melodramatic, depending on how you wanted to look at it.

John prepared himself for battle.

“Sherlock--”

“No, thank you.”

Well, Sherlock was alive at least.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” John protested. The look Sherlock shot him from beneath his arm was full of disdain, which John didn’t really feel he deserved. “Well, you don’t.”

“Of course I do. I always know what you’re thinking.” John highly doubted that. “Really, John, don’t you believe me?” Which didn’t stop him from worrying that perhaps he could.

“If you know what I was going to ask, you could answer the question.”

“We’re out of milk. And I need blood from the butcher.”

“Why do you need blood?”

There was that look again. “Do you really want to know?”

“Actually, no. I don’t think I do. Try not to traumatize Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock smirked.

\---

It was a rather boring crime scene, really. Which is a terrible thought to have, and John largely blamed Sherlock for having had it. There was a woman lying dead in a pool of blood. This was the third woman killed in her apartment recently and the police were concerned that it was the work of a serial killer. Sherlock just looked bored.

“What are you so unhappy about? I thought you liked serial killers.” Another terrible thought, but John was quickly becoming used to them.

“I do like serial killers. This wasn’t the work of a serial killer. This was a jealous ex-boyfriend. He used the recent crime wave to try to cover up the fact that he was the one who killed her. Dull.” Sherlock’s coat billowed as he exited the flat, and John has a theory that he only wears the thing for dramatic effect. The weather was perfectly decent out, after all, there was hardly a need for the thing.

John gave the now disgruntled police officers an apologetic smile as he followed Sherlock out the door. He caught up with the other man down the street and gave him a glance as they matched steps.

“What was all that, then? Showing your superiority to the masses suddenly lost its appeal?”

“What’s the point? Those idiots will never even begin to comprehend my genius, so why should I bother? It’s all a waste and I’m _bored_.”

John hated when Sherlock was bored. Not only did Sherlock’s destructive tendencies ratchet up to a degree that was frightening, John didn’t like the lost look Sherlock got sometimes. True, most of the time Sherlock looked annoyed when he was bored, as if the fact that nothing was happening was a personal insult from the universe to him. On occasion, though, John would catch a glimpse of despair on Sherlock’s face, as if nothing was ever going to be right again and there was no way for Sherlock to fix it. Which is ridiculous. John has a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock could fix just about anything.

It’s possible that Sherlock couldn’t solve the problem of his own boredom, though. That thought hadn’t occurred to him before. Well, maybe John could do something about it. He has to be useful for something. Other than his weapons training, that is. John didn’t think that this current bout of boredom was yet on the level of despair with the world, so he decided to make a preemptive strike against it.

“How about this? We’ll go get some dim sum, and you can tell me about the lives of everyone around? I promise to be impressed every time.” The truth was, John probably would be without any real effort on his part. Sherlock honestly was amazing.

The other man paused, then looked down and smiled. “Very well. I suppose I can provide tonight’s amusement. Who knows? Maybe you’ll learn something. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” John shook his head and followed his flatmate to the restaurant, listening avidly as he described the lives of passersby.

\---

If he had been asked three weeks ago if he thought he’d ever sleep with Sherlock Holmes, he would have laughed in the person’s face. Well, maybe not, but he liked to think that he would have enough self-control to not punch the bloody ponce. It would have been impolite at best, and John was raised better than that.

Which is not to say that three weeks ago he didn’t _want_ to sleep with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is handsome, intelligent, and intense doesn’t even begin to cover it. The idea just seemed to have a lot of things going against it. The sociopath thing for one. The married to his work thing for another. So John put his crush aside and worked on not trying to strangle his flatmate for his various indiscretions.

Then the pool happened. Moriarty happened. The subject of Sherlock’s heart was brought up and examined as violently as possible. It was discovered that not only did Sherlock posses a heart, but that a good portion of it belonged to John Watson. Plain old ordinary John Watson, who was willing to die for Sherlock, which is different than being willing to kill for him.

One would think that after a near-death experience, ending with one of the more secret of the secret government agencies swarming the place and disarming a bomb that could have destroyed the entire block, there would have been a chat about what had happened and possible consequences of insane evil geniuses taking a keen interest in you and your suffering.

Instead they went back to the flat. John just put a kettle on and Sherlock, for once, took the initiative to order in food. They pointedly did not worry about possible dangers planted in their home. It wouldn’t have been Moriarty’s style anyway.

They spent that night eating, drinking tea, and chatting about terrible TV. They ended up watching old episodes of _Top Gear_ and ignoring every call that came in. John would have to reassure people in the morning that he was still alive. Right then, he was busy trying to convince himself of the fact.

After that, things changed. From the outside, it probably looked as if Sherlock was his usual self, ignoring those lesser people around him. Those who knew him, though, could see that Sherlock was just a little bit different now. He spent less time curled up on the couch with depression wrapped around him. He started standing closer to John, and touching him as if to confirm that John was still there. Sometimes he would look at John as if he were important, like he was a puzzle that Sherlock could, and would, solve.

It was rather amazing to be the center of Sherlock’s attention. It was also vaguely frightening.

That was all right, though. John worked well when he was frightened.

\---

John wasn’t exactly sure how he got here. It had been such a normal day. Normal for him, anyway. Really, considering what his definition of normal was these days, maybe he should have seen this coming.

Sherlock, somehow detecting John’s wandering attention, bit John’s neck. Hard.

John should have complained. He should have pushed Sherlock away and demanded to know what the hell he was on about. He maybe even should have hit Sherlock for his assumptions. God knows that Sherlock would need such drastic actions to understand that what he was doing wasn’t on. Molesting one’s friend as he walked through the door was not the done thing.

Instead of doing any of those things, John just gasped and dragged Sherlock as close as he could get. Which probably would be even closer if their clothes weren’t in the way.

“What a wonderful idea, John,” Sherlock said as his hands moved to John’s belt, while his tongue laved the bite on John’s neck. Sherlock’s hands were nimble and making quick work of John’s trousers; John could only cling to Sherlock’s jacket, hoping that his knees wouldn’t buckle.

If John were honest with himself, he would admit that he had wanted this for a long time. He couldn’t deny that his flatmate was brilliant and handsome to a degree that really wasn’t fair. He also couldn’t deny, however, that Sherlock probably wouldn’t be the best person to have a relationship with. Up until now, John has assumed that Sherlock was asexual. If pressed, he might even have expressed doubt that Sherlock had ever masturbated. Though doubting that Sherlock did it didn’t stop the idea of it being one of the hottest things John had ever thought of. The idea of Sherlock naked in bed, tugging at his cock, face slack, whimpers trapped in his throat as the slick fingers of his other hand sank into his body, hips moving to get as much friction as possible, finally breaking with John’s name on his lips--

“Pay. Attention.” Sherlock had opened up John’s trousers and to emphasize his demand, he reached down and grasped John in a tight fist. John’s knees really did buckle then. It had been far too long since he had been touched by anyone other than himself. Sherlock pressed his body against John’s, pinning him to the wall and holding him up, only once relinquishing his grip on him to lick his palm, quickly returning his hand before John could level a complaint.

“Tell me what you were thinking about, John. Tell me what was so distracting.”

John leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and huffed a laugh. “I thought that you always knew what I’m thinking.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s cock and smiled at the resulting groan. John’s hips thrust into Sherlock’s grasp as his hand started to move. It felt like fire was moving down his spine, and nothing had ever felt so wonderful before.

“Even so, I want to hear you. Talk to me, John.” John’s hands scrambled across Sherlock’s back as he tried to draw in breath to speak.

“I was thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you.” Sherlock’s hand sped up and John had to work to focus on his speech, to make words, not just mindless noises of pleasure. “I was thinking -- _Christ_ \-- I was thinking about how brilliant you are and how much I’ve been wanting you. I was wondering if you ever touch yourself. Do you, Sherlock? God, fuck, please tell me that you do.” John needed the answer like he needed breathing. He felt like he might explode otherwise.

“Sometimes,” Sherlock replied, “when you’ve done something particularly wonderful.”

Fuck if that wasn’t one of the best things he’d ever heard in his life. John started mouthing against Sherlock’s neck, above the collar of his shirt, which, for some reason, was still on. “Wonderful? When am I wonderful?” John asked.

“Oh, usually when you’ve done something like buy milk. You’re glorious when you do that.” While Sherlock’s one hand continued to pump, the other wandered down the back of John’s trousers in an effort to move them out of the way while John gasped. “Mostly, though, you find _me_ amazing. Not many people do that. I can’t imagine why.” John tried to come up with a retort, or at least a chuckle, but his breath got caught in his throat. The noise made Sherlock move his hand faster on him.

John was fairly certain that he would be happier doing this in a bed, or at least horizontally. Despite that, with Sherlock’s hand working him and Sherlock’s voice speaking in his ear, John didn’t want to move. Couldn’t move, really. With John’s luck, if he even tried, Sherlock would end the entire thing, the contrary bastard.

“Do you know what I want to do to you, John? All the glorious, marvelous things?” Sherlock bit John’s ear as he twisted his hand on John’s cock. John couldn’t hold back a loud moan, breath harsh, nails digging into the fabric of Sherlock’s clothes, trying to tear them off. Sherlock barely noticed, continuing, “It’s a vast array of experiments. I would need constant data and I would need to replicate the results. These noises you’re making? I need to make sure that I can make you duplicate them.”

John found his hands wandering down to Sherlock’s belt, working on getting his hands on his flatmate. Or was he his lover now? John found himself not caring, not with his hand finally closing on Sherlock, feeling the warmth of the other man against him.

Sherlock’s breath started to go ragged. Trapped between their bodies, their hands worked, inching them closer to release. The hand not bumping John’s moved up to the his hair, tugging John’s head back to expose his neck further.

“You make these noises now. What would you sound like if I had my mouth on you? If I was fucking you? Would you let me do that, John?”

John wasn’t sure he had words for how much he wanted that. His body was starting to tighten, his hips thrusting against Sherlock’s hand, heat spreading through his body. His own hand was losing whatever rhythm it had managed on Sherlock in the short time he’d been touching him. The great detective didn’t seem to mind, choosing to suck on John’s neck, moving his way up to his ear to speak.

“But most of all, John, I want to hear what you sound like when you come. Please, John, let me hear you. Come for me now.” Sherlock’s thumb brushed the head of John’s cock at the same time as Sherlock took John’s lips in a violent kiss.

John had been whining in the back of his throat, having long ago lost the ability for words. When Sherlock said please, though, his body tightened and he let out a gasping sob into Sherlock’s mouth as he released, staining both their chests with his come. He slumped against Sherlock, breathing against his shoulder, as the man worked him through the aftermath.

“God, John. You’re amazing. Do you even realize how amazing you are? Do you know how much I want you, all the time?” While Sherlock had been calm before, with John’s come cooling on his fingers his composure broke down. He moved his mouth in sloppy kisses down John’s neck while his hips thrust against John’s stomach. As the post-orgasmic haze began to clear from his head, John started to move his hand on Sherlock again, twisting along the shaft. The taller man’s breathing grew harsher as he mumbled near nonsense into John’s neck. “Please, John, I want you. I want you, I want you, _please_.” John pulled Sherlock against him, trying to eliminate any space between them.

“You have me,” John said, as he rubbed his thumb against the head of Sherlock’s cock, remembering how it had felt when done to him just moments before. “I’m yours, Sherlock.” The other man stiffened against him and let out a choked noise. John held him through his orgasm, stroking him a few more times as Sherlock shook in his arms. Gathering what strength he had left, he guided them both to the couch, where they collapsed together. They sat there in a crumbled heap, clothing only partly undone, fighting to regain control of their breathing.

He supposed that they would have to talk about this later.

“We could do that, it’s true,” Sherlock’s breathing was almost normal, but his voice was low and lazy, “or you can fix us a cup of tea, before we retire to bed.”

“Bed?” John didn’t want to get his hopes up just to have Sherlock dismiss him out of hand.

“Of course. I told you, I need to make you repeat those noises. And find some new ones. It could take ages, and would need constant reevaluations. Unless you object?” Sherlock looked almost nervous, as if he thought John just might.

“Far be it for me to stand in the way of science.” Sherlock smiled at him from where his head had ended up, cushioned on John’s chest. John smiled back, feeling peaceful.

“Brilliant. Perhaps we should skip the tea, move ahead in the plan,” Sherlock said, his smile turned sharp as his hand trailed down John’s body.

John had always known that his flatmate was a genius.

\---

London was a battlefield. John knew that it was life or death, and that the rest of the city didn’t know just how dangerous it all was. He didn’t really care, though. What John fought for was Sherlock’s sanity. Sherlock could run head first into danger, and John would follow behind, providing backup and whatever stability Sherlock would allow. If John had any say in the matter, Sherlock would not be a casualty of this war.

John would always bring Sherlock back home and render what aid he could. Possibly with tea.


End file.
